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We did a bit of a circular tour last week. Up to Albacete, across to Cuenca and back through Teruel before coming home. 

Along the way we  visited the winery in Fuentealbilla, run by the Iniesta family, (Andrés Iniesta scored the winning goal for Spain in the 2010 World Cup), we looked at the huge 3rd Century AD Roman Mosaic in the tiny village of Noheda and we stayed in Albarracín which has city status even though it's smaller than either Algueña or Salinas. We even visited some old pals in Fuentes de Rubielos in Teruel.

I often think Spanish written information is patchy or poor. I wonder why there is no list of the tapas on offer or why the office doesn't show opening times. I have theories; those theories go from the link between information and power to high levels of illiteracy in the Franco years to the much less fanciful idea that Spaniards simply prefer to talk to a person. There's no doubt that written information here is much better, and more common, than in once was but it can still be woefully lacking.

Raul, who showed us around Albarracín, was a pretty decent guide. He introduced himself, he asked people in the group where they were from, he modulated his voice when telling stories and he spoke louder when someone revved a motorbike or beat a drum within earshot. Nonetheless the information was a bit stodgy - there were a couple of stories but it was still, basically, dates and facts. Years ago, when Maggie worked in Ciudad Rodrigo she helped a couple of young women to prepare for their oposiciones, the official exams for local government and civil service type jobs. Both of them had to be able to present the "official" script, in English, for the cathedral or castle; any deviation from the script was considered an error and would cost them exam marks.

I have another story that ties in with this Spanish idea of memorising things as being good. The first time I came across the Trinity College Speaking exam in English was when I had to help a student prepare for the exam. Her talk was going to be about the first of the Modern Olympic Games. When she'd finished her presentation I asked her a question about it. She replied, in Spanish, that all she needed me to do was to correct the script which she intended to learn and regurgitate. That method was so common in Spain that Trinity changed the exam to ensure that it was a better test of speaking skills.

The tour of the bodega at Fuentealbilla, the introductory welcome to the museum house in Albarracín, the guide who explained the Roman mosaics to us and the volunteer guide who showed us around Albarracín Cathedral were all fine, maybe a bit monotone, a bit emotionless, but fine. There was good information. When the cathedral guide told us that the decoration had been done on the cheap, the marble on the wall was just decorated plaster, the marble columns in the side chapel were painted pine trees, I thought this may lead to a bit of interaction, a bit of story telling. But no. Under such circumstances I often think back to a tour I did around St Peter's in Rome. The story of Michelangelo lying on scaffolding, with Dulux dripping into his eye from painting the Sistine Chapel, swearing at the Pope and complaining that he was a sculptor, not a painter, as he was asked if he could turn his hand to building the biggest dome ever because the tarpaulin draped across the unfinished church was letting in the rain water and giving the Protestants a good laugh. There was a guide who knew how to engage his audience in a tour.

In the Ethnological museum in Cuenca. I was reading one of the "labels" by an exhibit. It was, at least, 500 words long, a side of typed A4 paper. It was full of Spanish words in the style of the English word ashlar. Who ever says ashlar? Isn't dressed stone a bit more accessible? Couldn't they write, ashlar,  finely cut stone, to help out we non architects? I reckon that there was as much reading as in a normal length paperback on the walls of that museum. It takes me a few days to read a novel. Again, all it needs is a bit of thought to do this right. 

At the MARQ, the archaeological museum in Alicante, they do the British newspaper thing of a headline followed by an explanatory paragraph followed by the full story. An example. Let's suppose there are some hats and helmets and other headgear on display. The label title says Visigoth headgear. You can stop there if that's enough for you. Under the title the label says something like: Hats, helmets, scarves and other head coverings were worn by both men and women during the Visigoth rule in Spain (5th to 8th century AD). Whilst most of the headgear had some practical purpose, protection for soldiers, hygienic hair covering for cooks, a sun shade for shepherds etc. the style and decoration also emphasised the importance of the wearer in the social pecking order. Again, stop there if you will but if you're a millinery student looking for inspiration or simply a devout museum goer each exhibit has a longer, explanatory description.

But I would have forgotten all about the guides, and information and museums, if it hadn't been for the TV news yesterday. They said there were a shortage of place in FP courses. Now I happen to know what FP courses are but I wondered why they chose to use initials rather than use the full version. FP=Formación Profesional. The literal translation is Professional Training - it's the sort of training that is more directly work related. I was reminded of my potential blog topic and here it is.

Not just Cadbury's Cream Eggs

I think it was Catworth. There was a deconsecrated church and a theatre group called something like Reduced Theatre. Very reduced, just one man. Dressed as an Anglican vicar, he filled time as he waited for this evening's speaker, a speaker who will never arrive. Rural theatre. The ersatz vicar at one point bemoans the heavenly future of someone he knows - a Wesleyan and a Geologist - enough to consign anyone to a fiery eternity. My baptism took place in a Wesleyan church; my degree is in geology. The Cub Scout pack I briefly belonged to met in a Methodist Hall. The Grammar school I went to sang the Winston Churchill preferred version of Who Would True Valour See and we would all troop to the Anglican Church on Ascension Day. But that was closing in on 50 years ago now.

Now Easter in the UK, for me at least, was basically about chocolate eggs. I'm told it's also about rabbits now. That and a Bank Holiday for workers or the end of one term for people involved in Education. Not a lot of religion. Not a lot of cocks crowing thrice or Pontious Pilate and nothing about Veronica, the woman who wiped Jesus's face on the way to Calvary.

In Spain it's different. People still think Spain is a very religious, a very Catholic, country. The  statistics don't bear that out but nearly all Spaniards are brought up in a country that is conditioned by Catholocism, by rituals and customs related to the Roman Catholic Church, even if the number of practising Catholics, especially amongst younger Spaniards, is very low.

As a consequence Easter provides an incredible display of religiousness that fills the streets of Spain. It also fills the aeroplanes with people setting off on holiday but that's a different story. The variations on the Easter story are endless and that's where my ex Wesleyan, Methodist, Anglican and long forgotten religious indoctrination puts me at a severe disadvantage. On the TV news there are quick stories from all around the country of famous carvings, religious tableaux, graven images, carried through the streets by groups who form around them and maybe about the personalities who are involved in the groups. So maybe you have a carving called something like Our Chained Lord or the Black Virgin. This will be a wooden carving, possibly carved hundreds of years ago. or maybe in the 1940s after the original was burned or lost in the Civil War. The carving itself will be polychromed and dressed and go onto an ornate platform which may be fitted with wheels or carried through the streets on pained shoulders. The people who escort the figure often wear the tall pointed hats to hide their identity; the idea is that the people are indistinguishable, rich or poor, young or old. All together to pay homage. Not everyone wears pointy headgear. Women wearing mantillas and Roman soldiers are pretty common but there can be almost anything from people in doublet and hose or blacked up through to flying angels.

Your carving may go out on the streets on a couple of days during Holy Week or it may be out every day. It depends. Some groups, brotherhoods in translation for lots of them, may have several pieces of statuary so they go out with different floats on different days. The routes, the variations, from joyous to silent vigils vary from day to day. The discipline of the week may disappear with the joy of The Sunday of Resurrection or it may be that, Friday apart, the parades are as much about distributing sweets to the children amongst the spectators as they are about religious observance. The handling of the big floats may be of supreme importance with the dipping, reversing and lifting of the two or three ton floats being roundly applauded or it may be only of passing interest. Every town has its customs, its traditions and its idiosyncrasies from burning Judas to running at full tilt with the float of Mary on your shoulders, as she rushes to meet her risen son.

In the years we've seen lots of processions in lots of towns. This year we've been out in Pinoso, Jumilla and Albacete. In Albacete we went to see the Encounter, the part of the story where Jesus, fresh from the tomb, meets his mother on Easter Sunday. Two parades from opposite parts of the town bring in different imagery. In Jumilla it was the solemnity of Good Friday and for the rest we were in Pinoso including the procession from Thursday night to Friday morning where the lights of the town are turned off, muffled drums beat solemnly and black robed penitents carry just one float, the Christ of the Good Death, through the streets. The float is accompanied by lots of ordinary people carrying candles.

As an event I liked Jumilla best, overall Pinoso was my favourite though because it's ours, through our streets and with people we know. So the bronze to Albacete.

Impossible is nothing - Just do it

I realised this morning that I don't own any sports clothes. No Lycra (with my gut?), no trackies or even trainers. I do probably have some trainers and maybe some mountain man trousers somewhere but I haven't worn them for a while. This morning I was wearing boots, jeans and a jumper. I was the only person who didn't have lots of brand names as part of their clothing.

I'd signed up to do a bungee jump. Don't fret, I didn't actually do it. The event was advertised as puenting and, when I got there, I decided that what we were down to do was technically a pendulum jump rather than a bungee jump. The difference, I think, and don't quote me, is that on a bungee the elastic rope is fastened on the same side of the bridge as you jump from. The elastic stretches until it stops you and then catapults you back upwards. With a pendulum jump the cord is tied to the other side of the bridge from the side where you jump so there is a movement downwards but also laterally back underneath the bridge. When I was checking what damage jumping can do to a body as old as mine it was the bungee that offered possible eye and back damage.

Now I've never been much of a sports person. I don't like watching sport and I didn't like doing it. I've never been tempted to run, go to the gym, cycle, swim or hill-walk without reason or coercion. At school I was forced to do all sorts of dreadful, traditional, sporting things and later, when I was young and foolish, I tried some things I thought might be a bit more interesting - canoeing, sailing, pot holing, climbing and parachuting for instance. But I decided that I couldn't see the fun in going backwards on your elbows in a narrow tunnel as a farting someone kicked you in the face, trying to get back into the cockpit from being encased in the prow of an upturned boat as it bounced against WWII concrete defences or having your shoulders half wrenched out of their sockets. I chose other drier, ground-based and less malodorous hobbies.

For some reason though I've wondered off and on about doing a bungee jump. So when the local town hall put it on as part of their week of sporty activities I signed up. The person I gave my 30€ to (one jump 20€ two jumps 30€) didn't have any details. No information about anything. No little fact sheet - remember to wear sensible shoes and take a packed lunch - no safety guidance - don't do this if you weigh under 40kg or if you have a heart condition. Nothing. Well I did know where to go to catch the bus and the area we were going to - the Fuensanta reservoir near Yeste which turned out to be basically correct and specifically from la Vicaría bridge. I nearly cried off several times before today but I didn't have a contact number or an email address or anything. So I got up for the 7.30 start this morning probably to tell them I wasn't going to jump. Apparently 20 people had signed up but 11 had cried off (they must have just phoned the town hall I suppose) so we were reduced to a select band of young people and me who fittted nicely into the town hall minibus and a private car. I said to the organiser, right from the start, that I was too old and too scared to jump - not necessarily in that order The day looked hopeful though with sun drinking up the morning mist. I thought I could take some snaps so I decided to go to the bridge at least. The snaps are all blurred and badly framed.

The location was lovely. Albacete province looked splendid. I think I'd expected some sort of jumping centre but there was just the bridge. I looked over the side of the bridge and said that it was definite. There was no way I was going to purposefully throw myself into the void. To be honest when they started to jump it didn't look particularly strenuous. The only bit that looked hard was finding the courage to get onto the wrong side of the bridge fence and leap. Some people didn't do as they were told and didn't push off hard enough from the side but the only consequence seemed to be that the chief of the four person team intoned something like "¡hostias!" or "¡uff, los huevos!" as the cord tautened up. The jumpers might go "uff" too but they still got the ride and everyone walked back up the hill grinning. I vaguely wondered about doing it - I was there, I'd paid, I was pretty sure I'd survive even if I were to be one of the "uffers". It was a very vague thought though. My main reason for not doing it was that I lacked the courage to climb that fence, I'm not trying to pretend anything else but nearly as important was that I didn't really want to in just the same way as I have never wanted to do a Fun Run despite the obvious enjoyment that so many people get from it.

Two down, three to go

Avoiding people who aren't looking where they are going because they are glued to their mobile phones is an unremarkable modern day hazard. I was surprised though by a couple of lads riding their bike down the pedestrianised bit of a tree lined avenue in Albacete yesterday. No hands riding for both as they scrutinised their phones with one saying that there was a Pokemon in another fifty metres. The next three groups of lads I passed were also engrossed in the display of their phones, apparently, also in search of Pokemons. Pokemon Go in Albacete?

I'd gone on the train for a bit of a lark. It was one of the mid distance trains so I was a bit surprised when the TV monitors revealed that the train was doing just a tad over 160 k/h. My ticket was on my phone. The lad next to me was watching an episode of Vikings on his laptop whilst he whatsapped to his chums and those rolling Manchego plains slipped by. Most of the passengers were doing something with their phone so that the woman with a paper newspaper seemed a bit out of place.

I have an English exercise I use with students on the subject of Spanish stereotypes pulled together from  a series of travel guides published in Russia, Japan, the UK etc. The cliches aren't the bulls and sangria type but things like body hair on women, particularly underarm and on legs, being socially unacceptable or that nobody gets drunk in public. One of these supposed cliches is that RENFE trains are clean and efficient. Both my trains were dead on time and clean.

Maybe I'm on a bit of a Munro type mission to bag all the provincial capitals of Castilla la Mancha - Ciudad Real last week and Albacete this. The city has a bit of a reputation for being boring and it's true that there's not a great deal to see  but it seemed very clean and tidy to me with lots of open spaces and a lot of greenery. It's not the first or even the tenth time I've been there but it was still a pleasant enough day out.

Part of that was down to the tourist office. I really appreciated that, after the question as to whether I could understand his Spanish or not, the man talked to me like any other tourist rather than as someone who knew nothing. He gave me a map with some tourist routes on it, explained what was open and what was closed (nearly everything) and sent me away.

That's it really. A bit of an empty post. I didn't even buy one of the knives the town is famous for. I actually meant to but a queue at the bank machine left me a bit strapped for a while and, by the time I'd monied up, the shop I went to had closed for an early lunch because of the reduced summer hours. It certainly was warm enough, around 36ºC and sunny which is a nice temperature for a city hike

People aren't nice about Albacete

My mum reads these blogs so I'm going to be in trouble. If you tell Spanish people, presumably those who aren't from Albacete, that you are going there they trot out a little phrase of advice "Albacete, caga y vete" Albacete: shit and leave. There, I've done it now. No pocket money for weeks. Better not to recount the story of my first ever visit to Albacete on a perishing December night as it involves a porn cinema. I could end up grounded for years.

Maggie is not here so I'm alone. She's not a big fan of Albacete anyway. Personally I like it. On a sizzling August afternoon with the heat haze rippling off the plain I think it's about as Spanish as Spanish can get. Today it was a bit dull and then a bit wet.

The town isn't large. It's small or at least it feels small though apparently it has 170,000 people. We, I was with my pal Geoff, found ourselves wandering in circles because we had no map. I would have liked a map. Indeed we followed the signs to the tourist office so we could get one. The tourist office was closed. It was a particularly splendid example of the art in that it had no sign outside to say it was a tourist office. We had to ask someone where it was although we were standing just 10 metres from it. I presume it was closed because yesterday was a bank holiday and local government employees often get the bridging days to form a long weekend. Lots of Spaniards would have been on holiday today but Albacete isn't a big tourist destination so presumably there wouldn't have been any work for the tourism people anyway. Hang on, do I glimpse a paradox here?

We did stumble across the Cathedral though and opposite was a very green building with an ornate frontage. I took a snap and walked over to see what it was. The sign next to the door said MCA. It wasn't a big sign; think solicitor's office brass plate sort of size. Underneath, in quite small lettering it said Museo Municipal de la Cuchilleria. Albacete is famous for knives. Like Sheffield and Toledo it has a long history of finely crafted blades and here was the local museum dedicated to knives, scissors and all things cutlery. We paid a very reasonable entry fee and went in. I thought it was a good museum. Geoff doesn't really read Spanish and, as all the labelling and notices were monolingual, our pace around the exhibits was more hare than tortoise. The video was in English though so we watched that through. I was impressed enough to buy a couple of books telling the history of knife making in Albacete.

Once we'd eaten a rather ordinary meal we took people's advice, at least the second part.